The Last Garden in England(11)

“And now you’re stuck here,” said Beth.

“Until I can find someone to marry me, although not even that’s enough. I’ll need to get pregnant, too, before they’ll let me go.”

“It doesn’t sound like the quickest plan,” Beth said.

“What about you? Do you have a beau?” Ruth asked.

“Actually, I do.” How odd that sounded.

Ruth flipped over on her stomach and grinned. “Oh, do tell.”

Beth drew in a breath. “His name is Colin. He grew up on the next farm over from my parents. When I moved to Dorking, we began writing to each other. It was silly, really—we were only ten—but eight years later, we’re still writing.”

Still writing and somehow… sweethearts? She wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. One day, just after Christmas as Beth was waiting for her instructions from the Women’s Land Army, Colin had rung her at her aunt’s house.

“I’ve been thinking. We like each other, don’t we?” he’d asked.

“Of course we do. We’ve been friends for ages,” she said with a laugh.

“Will you be my girl?”

She’d bobbled the telephone receiver, barely catching it before it crashed to the floor. “What?”

“Think about it. You’re off to your training soon. I’m being sent to Italy in just a few days. Wouldn’t it be better if we both had someone waiting for us?” he asked.

“But, Colin, we barely see each other.”

“But we write. We speak on the telephone sometimes,” he said.

“But do you actually love me?” she asked.

“More than any other girl I’ve ever met,” he said. “Besides, who would love a farmer’s son like me except the girl I’ve known all my life?”

Pity pricked at her conscience. “That’s ridiculous, and you know it, Colin. You’re a good-looking man.”

But despite her reasoning, by the time she hung up, she somehow had a beau.

“Do you have a picture?” Ruth asked.

Beth reached into her case for the sketchbook she’d lain carefully on top of her clothes. From it, she drew a photo of Colin in his uniform, wholesome and still such a stranger to her.

Ruth scrutinized the photo with such an air of expertise that Beth blushed.

“Not bad,” Ruth finally announced. “What’s his regiment?”

“First Battalion, East Surrey Regiment.”

“Where he is now?”

“Somewhere in Italy. He can’t say more than that.”

“It must be nice knowing that there’s a man looking forward to your letters,” said Ruth, a little wistful. “Between the air base and Highbury House, I’m determined to land one.”

“What’s Highbury House?” she asked.

“Then they haven’t told you yet?”

“No.”

Ruth grinned. “Then I think I’d better let you find out on your own.”



* * *



The next morning, she and Ruth both groaned as the alarm on Ruth’s bedside table rang at half past four. By five, they were dressed and finishing breakfast at Mrs. Penworthy’s big kitchen table. At half past five, Mr. Penworthy was giving Beth her first lesson in being a land girl.

They were spreading slurry on the fields, a messy, smelly job even with the help of the tractor that Mr. Penworthy drove. Halfway through the morning, Beth had muck splattered all over her Women’s Land Army–issued gum boots and halfway up her breeches. She had shed the two wool jumpers and jacket she’d worn out that morning and was down to just a shirt. A blister was forming between her thumb and index finger.

The strangest thing was, despite all of the discomfort, she loved it. She was outside. Each breath was cold and crisp—if laced with the scent of manure. Her muscles burned, but Mr. Penworthy had let them stop long enough to admire the sunrise coming up over the barren trees at field’s edge. She felt vital and useful for the first time in a long time.

Ruth, however, was miserable.

“Can we not stop for elevenses?” Ruth called out.

Mr. Penworthy frowned from atop his tractor. “Elevenses? It’s half ten.”

“Soon enough,” grumbled Ruth.

“We’re nearly done,” said Beth, looking back over the three quarters of a field they’d already raked over.

Mr. Penworthy tugged at his cap. “There’s another field to do after this one.”

“Another?” Ruth screeched.

Beth let out a long breath. “Mr. Penworthy, didn’t Mrs. Penworthy say that she might start painting part of the barn today?”

The farmer stared down at her for a long moment before nodding. “Off you go, then, Ruth.”

Ruth dropped her rake and made for the edge of the field as fast as her mud-caked boots could carry her.

Beth went back to raking, but Mr. Penworthy didn’t start up the tractor again.

“You’re not tired, then?” he asked.

She stopped, holding on to the top of her rake. “I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ve ever worked as much in a single day as I have in this one morning.”

“Will you be wanting to go paint the barn as well?” he asked.